The Dead Don't Get Out Much. Mary Jane Maffini
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“The Super's not answering. And if she's not here, where could she be?” Alvin looked a bit more wild-eyed than usual.
We both stopped abruptly. The door to 1608 stood open.
“Oh,” said Alvin.
“Great,” I said. “She's home.”
“Violet!” Alvin barrelled through the door.
No answer.
“Violet?”
“Mrs. P.?”
Lester and Pierre, Mrs. Parnell's evil peach-faced lovebirds, screamed. Mrs. Parnell's place is neat, state of the art and minimalist. High-end stereo equipment and the latest in television, don't ask me brand names. The furniture was simple: black leather sofa and two chairs. Brushed chrome and glass coffee table and end table. Euro style lamps. There is a complete absence of doilies, knickknacks or clutter.
“Lord thundering Jesus,” Alvin said. “Was there a tornado here? Her CDs are all over the floor. And look at the books!”
I stepped toward the bedroom, my heart beating. “Mrs. P.? It's me, Camilla.”
Alvin said, “And me.”
“Silence implies consent.” I strode through the door.
Nothing. And no one. The bed was made, military style. Aside from that, Mrs. Parnell's room looked like the contents had been dumped from an airplane.
“What happened here?” Alvin said.
I shook my head. “A burglar?”
“The stereo's still in the living room, and so is her new plasma TV.” Alvin said. “Burglars love electronics. You should know that, you had enough clients who were burglars.”
“Maybe we interrupted one.”
Alvin mouthed, “Maybe he's still here.”
“He'd have to be in the bathroom,” I mouthed back and pointed.
“Or under the bed,” Alvin gestured.
“Or in the closet.”
“Behind the drapes.”
“Cornered,” I whispered.
“Whoops.”
Alvin armed himself with the standing lamp, and I picked up a small metal chair. With his free hand, Alvin yanked open the bathroom door. I raised the chair over my head.
Alvin shook his head.
No one there. Somebody had emptied the medicine cabinet though, scattering toiletries into the sink and onto the floor. I reached over and whipped open the shower curtain. There was a crunch as I stepped on an empty container.
“Closet,” I mouthed.
No one in the closet either. A few items hanging. A couple of hangers lay on the floor. Together we checked behind all the drapes. As a last resort, I dropped to my knees and peered under the bed. I scanned the room again, trying to make sense of things. A large red suitcase lay in the middle of the bedroom floor, unzipped and open, with clothing strewn over it.
“Violet has a set of this luggage,” Alvin said. “She just got it. We were thinking of taking some trips.”
My mind boggled.
He said, “There was a carry-on, with wheels, and a little toiletries case too. It had a place to hang her cane. The two cases hooked together, and they were lightweight, so that she could handle them. Although I would have helped her.”
I said, “Well, there's only one here now.”
Alvin checked my facts by peering into the closet.
I said, “Do you think a burglar would steal suitcases?”
“He could use them to stash stuff.”
“Nothing's missing.”
“Like you said, maybe he got interrupted.”
“By us. Or by Mrs. P.”
“But she's not here,” Alvin said. “Do you think she even came home?”
I pointed to the open door of the closet. “Isn't that her uniform, hanging up there?”
“Ohmigod, she was wearing it when she went to the hospital.”
“Right. And naturally, she must have worn it home. Obviously, she changed her clothes, and she hung up the uniform carefully. And then what?”
“She must have changed.”
“Obviously, Alvin. But what explains all this mess in the apartment?”
Alvin swivelled around. “I still figure a burglar. I can smell his aftershave. Can you?”
“What is it? Not Old Spice.”
“Well, hardly. No, something contemporary. Hugo Boss maybe.”
“Okay, so we smell aftershave, and Mrs. P.'s not here. Where did she go?”
“Why would she go anywhere? She couldn't have been recovered from seeing the dead man.”
“We'll leave the dead man out of it. Dead men don't wear aftershave.”
“She's been kidnapped,” Alvin said
“That's just ridiculous. Why would anybody kidnap her?”
“I don't know. It doesn't matter why. Somebody must have. Expensive aftershave. There's a type. You know what? I think that guy we passed had it on.”
“Let's keep cool. It's unlikely that she was kidnapped. This is Ottawa. And that guy we passed didn't have her. She probably just went out. She's independent. Maybe she had to pick up something.”
Alvin was on his way to the kitchen this time, flinging open the door to the fridge.
“There's food in here. Cheese. Bread. Wait a sec. Yeah. Lots of frozen sweet and sour chicken in the freezer too. Her fave.”
I headed back to the living room and checked the small modern cabinet where Mrs. P. keeps her Harvey's Bristol Cream. Three bottles stood waiting. A full carton of Benson & Hedges sat near the bottles.
“It wasn't a trip to fetch booze or cigarettes. What else could it be?”
Alvin loped back to the kitchen and flung open a door. “There's lots of bird seed. And it looks like she just fed them.”
“No need to panic. We should think logically.”
“If there were kidnappers, they must have had a van,” Alvin poked his head around the corner.
“Why on earth would anyone kidnap Mrs. Parnell?”
“Maybe she knew something that…”
“Forget it. Let's operate on the principal that she simply went out, Alvin. Like anyone would do on any normal day.”
Alvin's beady eyes watered. He put his hand in his leather jacket and pulled out the book. Another storm on the voyage to self-discovery.
We both turned our eyes to the clock.
“Okay, so it's after nine. Most stores will be closed. What's she doing out at this time of night? She'd hardly go to a concert in her state.”
“We should have asked the doctor exactly when she left the hospital,” Alvin said.
“I don't think he knew. He seemed quite shocked when he figured it out. Remember? We were hanging around when she was long gone.”
“It's not like Violet to be inconsiderate, even if she did leave us sitting there in those miserable plastic chairs. Why would she do that?”
“Let's chalk it up to shock.” I didn't want to suggest dementia.